


Everywhere Can't Be England

by allheadybooks



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Babies, Canadian Shack, Domestic, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allheadybooks/pseuds/allheadybooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's peculiar, watching James shed his layers: the hat goes first, flaps and all, then his mittens, then the wrap-around sunglasses; and finally Robbie can see his face, strawberry pink in the cheeks with a white dusting of snow melting into his eyebrows.</p><p>"A moment of peace, sir," Hathaway says, with that sideways grin of his.  "Lyn and the baby are experiencing the quiet majesty of the landscape."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everywhere Can't Be England

It's peculiar, watching James shed his layers: the hat goes first, flaps and all, then his mittens, then the wrap-around sunglasses; and finally Robbie can see his face, strawberry pink in the cheeks with a white dusting of snow melting into his eyebrows.

"A moment of peace, sir," Hathaway says, with that sideways grin of his. "Lyn and the baby are experiencing the quiet majesty of the landscape."

"Just as well," Robbie says. "I've had enough quiet majesty for one lifetime. I'm a copper, not a bloody forest ranger."

James chuckles. "We're a bit out of our jurisdiction here, I think you'll find." He goes down to one knee to unlace his boots, top to bottom. His fingers look white, too white, and clumsy--and Robbie sighs and goes to put the kettle on.

"Cuppa?" he asks.

"Thank God for tea, sir," James says dryly. He pries off his left boot and starts on the right. His woolen socks are damp at the toe and ankle. Robbie huffs and plods off to turn the radiator up.

"You'd better dry those," he says. "Come on, off with them."

"Yes, Mother," James says, but he's smiling as he strips off his socks and the boot liners beneath them. His toes are long, elegant, and bone white under their light blond fur.

"You'll give yourself frostbite," Robbie says. "Walking about in wet socks." He drapes the offending items across the radiator and smell of hot wet wool spreads through the cabin. James is out of his parka now, hanging it behind the door with his mittens dangling empty from the sleeves. He's an awkward sight in sweater and snow pants, barefoot, his hair a mess, and Robbie laughs despite himself.

"Stuff it, you," James says. He pulls a rocking chair and footstool over to the radiator, though, and props his feet a few inches from the heat.

Robbie checks the kettle--rolling lightly, a minute or two from boiling--then drifts to the window. Lyn is standing perhaps twenty paces from the front door, next to the barn where their snowmobiles are parked, and even from here he can tell she's whispering to the baby in her arms: something sweet, he knows, something proud and loving. "Is she keeping Alan warm enough?" he asks.

"More than," James says. "I think he's sweating under all those layers."

"Hmm," Robbie says. The kettle starts to whistle, so he turns back to the stove, but James has beaten him there.

"Sit _down_ , Robbie," he says, aggravated but smiling, and picks up the kettle.

"Hmmph," Robbie says. He drags the other rocking chair over to the radiator and sits down. He can't get comfortable--the slats dig into his back, and his center of gravity just won't seem to settle. James puts three mugs down on the counter and fills them with water--no proper teapot, not here in the rental cabin. Ay, well, everywhere can't be England, Robbie thinks, and he knows himself well enough to laugh at that--it's his Uncle Harry's voice in his own head. He's getting old.

"Here," James says, and hands him a pillow. Robbie tucks it behind his back--ah, there. The porch steps creak, and he hears the familiar stamp of Lyn's snow boots on the mat just outside their door.

"Come inside, love," he calls, and moves to get up, but James's hand is on his shoulder before he can get far.

"You're hopeless," James says, and presses him back into the seat. "Just sit, will you."

Robbie sighs. He turns a bit in his chair, at least, to watch Lyn come in the door, dark against the icy sky, and shift baby Alan carefully into James's arms.

"It's so lovely," she says, dropping her hat and gloves in a damp pile on the floor. "He goes quiet as a mouse in all that silence, just absolutely still, like he's listening. It's amazing."

"Ay, well," Robbie says, "it is that."

"Thank you, Dad," she says. She smiles, her cheeks dimple, and she's two women suddenly, older and younger at once, like a photograph that's been exposed twice. It's faint, but it's there. He smiles back.

"Well. You're welcome."

"Tea's on," James says. "Just needs milk. Would you mind? I'll get him over by the radiator." He hangs Alan's parka on the rack with all the rest, and sits down next to Robbie with the baby cradled to his chest, propping his bare feet on the footstool.

"Of course," Lyn says. Robbie hears her fussing about in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, spoons clinking on mugs. He adjusts the cushion behind his back. Beside him, James hums a deep baritone, Alan's tiny fingers clutched in his sweater.

"Who's a canny bairn, then?" Robbie says softly. He reaches over, takes Alan's fingers out of the fuzzy wool, and lets him grab onto Robbie's pinky instead. His little cheek is squashed flat and he's pink and drooling, and James is humming, and Lyn is splashing milk into their tea, and Robbie, Robbie has never, ever been happier than this.


End file.
